Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree by Tariq Ali

thought. I thought you would have worked that out for yourself.’
    ‘You are wrong, Excellency. It is the destruction of the Hebrews and the Moors which is necessary to preserve our Church.’
    ‘We are both right in our different ways. I have many people waiting to see me. We must continue this conversation another day.’
    And in this brusque fashion the Count of Tendilla informed Ximenes de Cisneros that his audience was over. The priest rose and bowed. Don Inigo stood up, and Cisneros saw him resplendent in his Moorish robes. The priest flinched.
    ‘I see my clothes displease you just as much as my thoughts.’
    ‘The two do not appear to be unrelated, Excellency.’
    The Captain-General roared with laughter. ‘I do not grudge you the cowl. Why should my robes annoy you? They are so much more comfortable than what is worn at court. I feel buried alive in those tights and doublets whose only function appears to be the constriction of the most precious organs which God saw fit to bestow. This robe which I wear is designed to comfort our bodies, and is not so unlike your cowl as you might imagine. These clothes are designed to be worn in their Alhambra. Anything else would clash with the colours of these intricate geometric patterns. Surely even you can appreciate that, Friar. I think there is a great deal to be said for communicating directly with the Creator without the help of graven images, but I am approaching blasphemy and I do not wish to upset or detain you any further ...’
    The prelate’s lips curled into a sinister smile. He muttered something under his breath, bowed and left the room. Don Inigo looked out of the window. Underneath the palace was the Albaicin, the old quarter where the Muslims, Jews and Christians of this town had lived and traded for centuries. The Captain-General was buried in his own reflections of the past and present when he heard a discreet cough and turned round to see his Jewish major-domo, Ben Yousef, carrying a tray with two silver cups and a matching jar containing coffee.
    ‘Excuse my intrusion, Excellency, but your guest has been waiting for over an hour.’
    ‘Heavens above! Show him in, Ben Yousef. Immediately.’
    The servant retreated. When he returned it was to usher Umar into the audience-chamber.
    ‘His Graciousness, Umar bin Abdallah, Your Excellency.’
    Umar saluted Don Inigo in the traditional fashion.
    ‘Peace be upon you, Don Inigo.’
    The Count of Tendilla moved towards his guest with arms outstretched and hugged him.
    ‘Welcome, welcome, Don Homer. How are you, my old friend? No formalities between us. Please be seated.’
    This time Don Inigo sat on the cushions laid near the window and asked Umar to join him there. The major-domo poured coffee and served the two men. His master nodded to him and he moved backwards out of the chamber. Umar smiled.
    ‘I am glad you retained his services.’
    ‘You did not come all this way to compliment me on my choice of servants, Don Homer.’
    Umar and Don Inigo had known each other since they were children. Their grandfathers had fought against each other in legendary battles which had long since become part of the folklore on both sides, then the two heroes had become close friends and begun to visit each other regularly. Both grandfathers knew the true costs of war and were greatly entertained by the myths surrounding their names.
    In the years before 1492, Inigo had called his friend Homer simply because he had difficulties in pronouncing the Arabic ‘U’. The use of the prefix ‘Don’ was more recent. It could be dated very precisely to the Conquest of Gharnata. There was no point in taking offence. In his heart, Umar knew that Don Inigo was no longer his friend. In his mind he suspected that Don Inigo felt the same about himself. The two men had not met for several months. The whole sad business was a charade, but appearances had to be maintained. It could not be admitted that all chivalry had been